


i've really gotta hand it to you

by Hymn



Series: Voltron: Legendary Defender [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: LANCE/HIS PANSEXUAL SPACE EXPLORATIONS, M/M, Mild Claustrophobia, Mild Flashbacks, PTSD, Pansexual!Lance, and terrible problems with exposition!, but we gotta let lance work it, endgame: shance!, honestly this is a goofy fic i hope y'all have fun with it, hymn as zero shame, i went ahead and started it with mature because i felt like it, if i have forgotten anything PLEASE let me know, jealous!Shiro, mild panic attack, mild violence, more tags to be added as needed, o shiro buddy get a g r i p, pan!lance, panromantic!lance, rating will be going up, shiro warning time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: Wherein Shiro finally makes it back home only to find himself fairly ill-equipped to handleLance, and his newfound sex appeal -- let alone all of the (unbelievably lucky) aliens that he seems intent on seducing. (Keith keeps calling him a garbage fire under his breath but, really, it is not Shiro's fault that things keep breaking apart in his hands. It'snot.)





	i've really gotta hand it to you

**Author's Note:**

> guess what, guys, there is _zero_ lance in this chapter, i know, i knooooow, HYMN YYYYY D: but i have feels, okay, and the compelling urge to write more aliens and vague super soft scifi shit and I NEEDED TO GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM, i 100% promise next chapter (third chapter _at least_ ) is gonna have a healthy amount of lance/his pansexual space explorations and/or flustered shiro who CANNOT HANDLE lance in all his pan!glory, okay???
> 
> thanks for taking the time to read this! it's a legit 'for fun' fic so i hope it is enjoyable :3 :3 :3
> 
> IN HONOR OF PAN AWARENESS DAY I'M POSTING THIS CHAPTER WAAAAY EARLIER THAN I HAD PLANNED! WOO WOO! /WAVES PAN FLAG YEAAAH

Four months after his escape luck finally found Shiro.

 _Good_ luck, even.

A movement before had him hitching a ride on a Resistance-friendly cargo ship, catching up on news of the war and Voltron that had to be phoebs old, but was still a balm to Shiro’s worries -- even if it did rankle that someone named _Kuron_ was piloting the Black Lion. 

It was Keith who was meant to have taken up that mantle, not allow some interloper to lead the charge. Shiro had told him to, had _trusted_ him to take care of the team in his stead, and, what? A year or so out of commission and _this_ is what Shiro finds?

Whatever. 

Shiro was going to fix that. Just as soon as he managed to _get there_.

A few quintants of achingly slow space travel later and the cargo ship -- and Stal, the probably-smuggler who had given up his own allotment of water so that Shiro could, ah, how had he put it? _“Stop stinking up the whole place! Yalibit wept, friend, but you are foul, entirely disgusting. Where have you even been?! Amongst corpses?!_ ” 

For the record: Shiro _had been amongst corpses_ , yes. But he thought it kinder not to admit to that; Stal already looked a bit green about the gills -- set its rickety, banged up self down on I’kk, a little outpost in a fairly quiet system. 

It was a comforting sort of planet. Stal had assured him the atmo would be suitable for his physiology, and after a few positive readings on a jerry-rigged scanner proved that to be true, Shiro had dared take off his helmet. 

_Wow_ , he thought, dazed, staring up at a pale greenish-blue sky; _nothing has ever tasted quite so sweet as a lungful of oxygen-rich air, has it? Holy shit._

Above, distant suns cast dual shadows against the dry, scrub-covered earth, and were kind enough to warm Shiro’s space-pale skin without burning it. A scent on the breeze made him think of late summer on Earth, all spice and mellow heat as the season ripened. Behind him, Stal glubbed irritably in his fishbowl of a helmet as he unloaded crates and crates of creature comforts, simple staples -- all things life on a frontier planet didn’t find easily at hand, apparently.

“Oi,” said Stal. “You done gaping about? Yalibit alone knows what’s going through that brain of yours, but you _did_ promise to do the heavy lifting, remember? Hop to!”

“Er, right. Of course!” 

Turning, Shiro hastened to obey, least of all because he was garnering more than a few curious looks from the nearby residents which, well... 

Shiro would have been more comfortable staying completely beneath their notice, to be honest, and, considering it would be three movements at least before another cargo ship heading towards the Castle of Lions touched down on I’kk, Shiro wasn’t likely to be able to pull it off.

Best not to start off weirder than he had to.

* * *

He really _was_ lucky, because Shiro did not manage to _not_ be weird.

But I’kk seemed untouched by the war, or rumor, or _working comm system_ , apparently. In a way, the enforced isolation and solitude was almost nice, the first real reprieve in what felt like a lifetime. With the Galra barely present, and the colonists working too hard at making a living to care much about the weird alien in their midst, Shiro could _almost_ relax.

Almost.

Without funds, Shiro was roughing it. And, lack of Galran soldiers or not, Shiro made a point of clinging to the fringes of the settlement when he could so as not to draw attention, slinking cautiously into town -- such as it was -- only when he had to. Still, after two movements the residents were as like to raise a hand in familiar greeting to him as not. Shiro kind of liked the normalcy of the gesture, if he was being honest.

He didn’t much care for the pitying looks, though, or the random bits of food and blankets that wound up near his usual haunts, waiting for him.

“I’m not a charity case,” Shiro protested, glaring down at a cloak with a thick, rough weave. The nights could get cold on I’kk, and Shiro had spent more than one shivering, not daring to light a fire lest it catch all the dry brush and scrag alight. 

Colas’ikl gave an amused chirrup. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” she said. “Whole town’s about decided to keep you. Now, me, I’ve always had a thing for strays that keep to the outskirts; the ones folk don’t pay much mind to. Make a nice trophy for my walls, and no one misses them. So, I don’t mind if you’re not a charity case -- I’ll take my blanket back, head on home for my blaster, and see about a new prize. Hm, I wonder how much it’d cost to stuff you. Maybe three, four --”

“ _Okay, thank you_ ,” Shiro clutched the blanket to his chest, wide-eyed.

Mouth parted in a toothy grin, Colas’ikl winked. “You know where to find me if you have need of anything else, Charity. I’ll be seein’ you.”

When she’d gone, Shiro allowed himself to mouth _Charity_ in complete and utter dismay.

But, well...

Colas’ikl had made a joke of it, but the thing was that Shiro was an alien here, a strange, possibly exotic creature in the midst of a society whose culture he hadn’t an inkling of. Maybe she _would_ shoot and mount him on a wall, somewhere, with a lame story to tell her grandkids one day. _There was once this weird, twitchy alien named Charity..._

“Charity,” Shiro muttered, fingers digging into the cloak; grim, he considered.

Shiro could _probably_ take her. 

Maybe.

Seven feet of scaled Oroubi would be a challenge for anyone, but a flashback that had sent him shaking to his knees out by the uila fields a few quintants ago _did_ tell him that he had done it at least once before. _Champion_ was a sour taste in the back of his throat -- like filth and puke -- but it did at least give him the confidence to grin back at her, next time.

“You’re all right,” she allowed, the seventh time he came asking for odd jobs and payment in GAC. “I’ll tell you what -- I’ve got an old junk shed out back. All sorts of crap stuffed tail to nose in there, and I haven’t a need for any of it. But I want the space. You clear it out, you can keep the junk -- or the money you get selling it. Fair?”

“Fair,” Shiro agreed, sticking out his arm to shake -- the Galran one; he’d made the mistake of using his left only the once, and _never again_ , thank you. His knuckles _still_ ached.

Colas’ikl grinned her sharp and toothy grin, and tried to break Shiro’s prosthetic in her grip. “Have fun, little one. And you had _best_ clear out the whole thing. No shooting off as soon as you think you have what you need, got me? This deal only works if you _do_ all of the work.”

“All right, all right,” Shiro laughed, ignoring the sweat that trickled down his spine at the effort of keeping his arm powered up, vivid magenta and whirring softly, refusing to fail beneath the Ourobi’s overwhelming strength. “ _Fine_ , I promise. Nowhere for me to run off to yet, anyway, is there?”

“Mm. True enough.”

Satisfied, Colas’ikl released her grip. Shiro sagged slightly for but a second -- and still, he saw the fierce twinkle of humor in her yellow eyes. Shiro rolled his, straightening, because _honestly_ , some people just liked to be asshats a little too much. 

...Like Pidge, and Lance, and _Keith_ , and --

Shiro breathed in sharp through his nose and shook it off. He didn’t have time to get nostalgic, not when he needed to focus. _I’ll find you_ , he vowed. _I will, and you -- you had all better be in one piece when I do. You have to. Stay safe, please._

“Guess I’d better get started, then,” Shiro decided.

* * *

The shed was deeper than he’d expected. It sank two meters down beneath the surface, cool and dry and dark, and so cluttered full of things Shiro had never seen before, couldn’t have a hope of guessing about, that Shiro felt a moment of such intense claustrophobia he was struck still and vulnerable.

It felt like --

_being packed into cells, elbows overlapping, overcrowded, just animals in a sty waiting for slaughter, waiting for_

\-- memories best left forgotten.

“You’re fine, Takashi,” Shiro whispered, eyes shut tight against the dark. 

Sound filtered in -- the wind through the feathery fronds of the uila, the generator humming at back of Colas’ikl’s homestead, the thrum of his blood through his body. _Inside_ , not out, not spilled on the floor, or dusted across some alien’s knuckles, no. 

Shiro was safe. He was _fine_.

He snorted.

Opened his eyes, and glared into the gloom. One step in and overhead lights flickered on, fully illuminating the mess. 

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered to no one, “you’re fine, you’re great. You’ve only been on the run for months, half-starved, in captivity for -- how long? A year? A deca-phoeb? There’s no freaking news this far out, and every time you do hear something about their location they’re long gone by the time you get _anywhere_ near them, and --”

_Deep breaths._

“-- everything’s _great_ ,” he forced out through clenched teeth, scrunching up his nose.

There must have been a lot of dust or something in that shed, because Shiro’s eyes stung, and burned, and watered until his vision wavered and his throat grew tight. Dust, he thought, disgusted, as he swiped a fleshy palm across his face. _Stupid, quiznaking dust._

The _dust_ continued to afflict him, on and off, for the rest of the day.

* * *

Luckily, by the next morning Shiro had found his best bit of luck yet -- an old transmitter that Shiro actually _recognized_ , at least enough to make it work.

And, while Shiro had never been much of a mechanic or engineer, let alone a genius kid with a gift for circuitry and coding, the Garrison had put him through his paces, and he had learned a few things besides on the Kerberos missions before it all went ass-backwards. 

Most importantly, though, he had a pretty decent memory. 

Grinning, Shiro shoved the long, greasy snarl of his hair into a knot at the base of his skull and set about clearing a space to work -- beneath all the clutter were work benches and shelves; and while barely a tenth of the room had been recovered from the madness, it was enough for him to set up shop -- and dug through dented crates for tools, damn near _humming_. 

This was it! He could do this, he could really _do_ this. 

It was a good thing Keith was paranoid, Shiro thought, fond. Because now all he had to do was get this hunk of mildly rusted junk up and running, and then he could start transmitting that absurdly complicated, coded signal Keith had insisted he learn in case something ever happened to him, and --

“Keith,” Shiro had protested, “this is _overkill_. I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine, okay, so just --”

Keith had growled, “ _bullshit_ ,” just as Lance piped in with a grudging, “You _do_ realize you’ve been stolen once already, right? Honestly, I’m with mullet-head on this one -- _shocking_ , I know.”

\-- it was a good thing they hadn’t trusted his word, Shiro thought, rueful. 

When he had all the tools he needed -- he hoped; honestly, he was twenty percent positive not all of the tools were actually _tools_ , but Shiro figured it was better to be over prepared than under -- he set about opening up the transmitter. 

A quick glance left him feeling dazed, eyes glazing over at the complicated circuitry, the wires and the delicate, glass tubing.

“...This is going to suck.”

But Pidge had taken one of these apart, once, chattering excitedly all the while about what _this_ did and what _that_ did, and how if you did _this_ then you could connect _these_ , and Shiro wasn’t a quitter, and he wasn’t stupid, and his memory was _great_ , mostly, if you didn’t count that year as _Champion_ , and he _didn’t_ , not now, because Shiro was going to _get this stupid thing working_ , he --

 _Well_ , Shiro reassured himself after a shower of sparks erupted and the little glass tubes went brown-tinged and sad, _I’ve... got time to get it right, at least._

He sighed.

This was really, really going to suck.

**Author's Note:**

> hugs and kisses, i'll get the next part out as soon as it's written <3 <3 <3


End file.
